


The Fist of HYDRA

by StarsGarters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fisting, Blood, Dehumanization, Dirty Bad Wrong, Facials, Fisting, Gags, Gang Rape, Hallucinations, Leather gloves, Limit Testing, M/M, Masturbation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Nipple Piercings, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Objectification, Psychotropic Drugs, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Torture, you've sinned just reading the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johann Schmidt aka The Red Skull finally captures a drugged and hallucinating Steve Rogers. He takes full advantage of the situation. Takes place during Captain America: The First Avenger after Bucky falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fist of HYDRA

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverDolphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDolphin/gifts).



“How long has the Captain been in custody?” Johann Schmidt, also known as the Red Skull, arrived at the HYDRA holding facility. His imperious demeanor didn’t betray his delight at finally capturing the thorn in his side, Captain Steven Grant Rogers. The man who had stolen his birthright, the perfect super soldier serum.

Schmidt wore his mask and wig, the edges of the painted latex pulled and tugged at his skin. It was a necessary evil when he ventured outside the privacy of his compound. He wasn’t far enough along in his plans for the world to gaze upon his true visage. The ignorant and weak were easily scared by what they could not easily comprehend. He would have to educate them after his forces had crushed their spirits.

Dr. Zola fidgeted with his hands, “About seventeen hours Herr Schmidt. He was destroying one of our chemical laboratories and came in contact with one of our more experimental pathogens.” He looked at the floor.

Schmidt sighed, “Which one?” He had so many experimental programs, some of them were authorized by Hitler but most of them were not. They were his pet projects. Dark magics, ancient sorceries and tribal secrets were the things that Schmidt hoarded greedily. Magic was only science that man could not explain yet, after all.

“Number 4269. An inhalation toxin that was designed to inflame the nervous system and cause certain death.” Zola swallowed nervously, “It worked on rats!”

“It did not work as planned on the Captain?”

Zola shook his head, he looked and acted like a subservient weasel. “No. No, it did not.”

“Show me.” Zola led Schmidt to a holding cell in in the middle of the complex. He slid back the viewing portal and Schmidt stifled a gasp. Strapped to a heavy hewn table of old dark timber was the pride of the Allied forces. The tattered remnants of his ridiculously patriotic uniform did nothing to conceal acres of pale, sweat-glistened flesh. His hips thrust upwards, seeking the sweet release of friction. It was a pornographic sight and Schmidt swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“He has been drifting in and out of a semi-conscious state. It appears that he is hallucinating.” The Captain’s shield leaned against the wall, a king’s ransom in precious metals.

“Why is he gagged?” A thick rag parted lips pinker than a Berlin whore’s. Thick dark lashes fluttered and Schmidt was envious of the Aryan ideal that was wasted upon this wretched creature.

“He—“ Zola paused, at a loss for words. He gathered his thoughts and explained in a rush, “He has been saying the most deeply perverted things, obviously the man is deranged. I had him gagged to prevent his egging on the guards. They took his taunts as a personal affront to the cause and tried to _discipline_ him.” Ah, so some of the glistening wetness on the Captain’s skin was not simple sweat. Had they fucked him? Had they tried to desecrate the specimen? _Fools_. They should have waited until he arrived. So he could have watched. 

“I see. And did that accomplish anything?” He was proud of the evenness of his tone. He was obviously in control, no matter what the swelling in his breeches said to the contrary.

“No. He— he _begged_ for more. Such a disgusting display of the tenuous moral fiber of the Americans. Perhaps a flaw in Erskine’s formula after all?” Zola’s lips curled in revulsion.

“Perhaps. Have samples been taken? Of all fluids?” First the easily obtained samples then later the vivisection.

“All but the semen sample.” Schmidt raised an eyebrow in disbelief and gestured at the man strapped to the table. He looked randy enough to orgasm at the hint of a slight breeze. Maybe hot breath ghosting upon the Captain’s red, leaking cock?

Zola shook his head, “You would think it would be an easy task in his current state. But he has tremendous stamina and our attempts at manual and vibratory stimulation have not been fruitful.”

“Explain.” In gruesome detail…

“One of the technicians attempted manual stroking while another applied stimulus to his anus and scrotum. He laughed, Herr Schmidt. He called them the most sugary of names and spoke of visiting an amusement park by the seashore. He managed to seriously injure one of my technician’s eyes with a vicious hip thrust. He’s gone quite, quite insane.” Zola took a moment to clean his glasses.

Schmidt’s breath fogged up the glass of the viewing portal. “Indeed. Open the door. I shall deal with this personally. ”

“Of course. But—“ Zola pleaded, “He is not in his right mind.”

Schmidt smiled, the edges of his mask strained around his lips. “Then this should be highly amusing.” It had been a long time since anyone had amused the Red Skull.

 

The holding cell reeked of pungent sweat and semen. Schmidt’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Remove the gag,” he commanded.

Zola cringed, “But sir! Please reconsider.”

“Remove it!” Schmidt hadn’t gotten as far as he had by submitting to the whims of his easily discomfited subordinates. Zola was intelligent and wily, but he had no backbone to speak of. Zola removed the gag and the Captain lazily smacked his too pink lips. His eyelids fluttered. He was hallucinating. There was no other possible excuse for the trill of hysterical giggles that escaped his lips.

Schmidt leaned down and said, “Surely Captain Rogers you understand the gravity of your situation. You are in my custody. For me to do with as I please. You are nothing more than a curiosity, a specimen. A pet.” The idea pleased him more than he would ever admit. He was the pinnacle of scientific achievement and the thought of keeping Captain Rogers as a toy made excitement thrill up his spine. 

“Mmm. Meow. Purr. Purr. Pet the kitty.” Rogers cooed. He tilted back his head, exposing the long pale length of his throat.

“What?” Schmidt asked, momentarily stunned.

Captain Rogers’ tongue darted out, then he pursed his wet lips and uttered a single word, “ _Mew_.” He strained against his bonds, the table creaked. There was just enough slack to allow the Captain to bend his knees, brace his booted feet and to thrust up with his hips. A trickle of wetness glistened upon the dark wood, arousal fluid that had bubbled over and spilled. Schmidt stared in awe at the magnificence in front of him. 

“You see Herr Schimdt, he’s incoherent and of no use to us until the toxin clears his system. That could be several hours away. He will continue to proposition the most lewd of activities unless we gag him. Disgusting.” Zola was oblivious to the swelling in Schmidt’s breeches.

“All I want to do is ride the coaster at Coney Island!” Rogers babbled. “God, my fucking tights are riding up.”

“Leave us.” Schmidt ordered, sheer force of will keeping his voice steady. Captain Rogers squirmed on the table, grinding his pert buttocks against the wood. Zola nodded, handed Schmidt the sample vial and gratefully left the holding cell.

Schmidt walked over to the door and hung his hat over the viewing portal. He wasn’t interested in witnesses for this interview. “Do you know where you are Captain?” He dragged a leather-clad finger along the ridge of Rogers’ bicep, continued to trace the curve of his clavicle. The shuddering gasp that escaped the Captain’s lips was intoxicating. Torture was delightful, but this torment was _exquisite_.

Rogers leaned into the fleeting touch, “The roof was gone and you said, _Fuck it_ , I like to see the stars reflected in your eyes.” His focus dwindled and Rogers stared up at Schmidt, “You have the softest eyes, my love.”

“Do I?” Schmidt said, amused at the misplaced sentimentality of the American. “Why are you being restrained? Answer me.” He continued his survey of Rogers’ physical perfection, lightly grazing the tip of a ruddy pink nipple. Rogers gasped and arched his back towards the fleeting stimulation. He strained against his bonds, his pectoral muscles more pert and round than most women’s breasts.

Heat rose in Schmidt’s cheeks, uncomfortable under the latex of his mask. Watching the yearning on the American’s face was sweet torment. He needed to break him, unmake him.

He slipped his fingers under the edge of his mask and carefully stripped it away. He set it on a bench along with his wig. He loomed over Steve Rogers, his crimson visage terrible and stern. “Now you should scream, Captain. Scream in horror at what is about to befall you.”

There was no screaming, no shocked display of horror or squirming in fear. The Captain smiled at the Red Skull and whispered, “You look so lovely in red, my darling.”

Schmidt recoiled in shocked anger and his first impulse was to strike Rogers’ flushed face, but he narrowed his eyes and regained his control.

Schmidt felt his lips pull back in a wide rictus grin. He pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth. Rogers shivered as he traced the pale blue veins beneath his porcelain skin. So much power lurked under that deceptively delicate exterior. 

Schmidt stuck his fingers into the pouting reddened mouth and Captain America suckled at them. He laved the Red Skull’s fingers with his tongue and sucked eagerly upon them, working them with his mouth until Schmidt felt dizzy with arousal.

“You taste like licorice twists.” Rogers giggled and it quite spoiled the atmosphere. Schmidt promptly gagged Rogers before he babbled like a child anymore. Children should be seen and not heard, after all.

“It’s a pity that you do not understand the full scope of your predicament. I would very much like to see your face as you understood exactly what I plan to do to you.” Schmidt dragged his fingernails down the pale flesh of Rogers’ chest. He left reddened weals that flared and faded.

The serum, the perfect serum was mocking him. No matter what he did to Rogers, it would heal. Theoretically, even amputation. That was barbaric, Schmidt was above that pettiness. He didn’t want to maim his rival, he wanted to destroy him. He wanted to use him, to humiliate and break Rogers. Simple sodomy was too… pedestrian for his tastes.

Schmidt tapped his fingers on his own chest, his fingertips rapped against the badges on his uniform. He glanced down at the enameled death’s head emblems of HYDRA and smiled as inspiration struck him. He unclasped a pin.

“I should keep you as a pet indeed.” He pinched Rogers’ nipple with leather-gloved fingers and slowly pierced the nubbin with the pin. A trickle of blood dribbled out as Schmidt took his time pressing and twisting the pin. Rogers arched his back in painful sensation and the table groaned when his body slammed back onto it.

“Thread a ring through your obscene nipples, link them with a golden chain as a leash. You could sit on the floor at the base of my throne.“ He plucked the second pin from his uniform. He always did like symmetry. The blood from the first piercing had stopped before he thrust the pin through the second. Rogers shuddered like a winded stallion and his cock leapt in excitement. Such a pitiful, animalistic reaction.

“You’d be a war prize just like the conquerors of old. I’d use you for stud service, I think, producing servants and warriors for my armies.” Schmidt slapped the pert flesh of Rogers’ buttock where it met his thigh with his gloved hand. “I’d brand you right here with my crest. We’d have to do it weekly, keep the wound fresh and the humiliation fresher.”

He peered at Rogers’ hairless anus. The serum abhorred body hair, it removed all traces of their ancestors, the apes. Rogers might have been physical perfection, but the way he moaned as Schmidt circled his swollen hole with his gloved finger was purely _bestial_. “How many of my men have you entertained, American slut? Your hole is filthy with their leavings. It is disgusting. You are disgusting. Letting yourself become captured so easily.” A single gloved finger slid in without resistance and easily became three. Sweat beaded on Rogers’ skin and dripped as Schmidt viciously thrust forward. The black leather glistened wetly.

“But that’s because you are the inferior specimen. No matter what your visage says to the contrary.” The American was beautiful even while moaning like a whore around the gag. That irritated Schmidt, that beauty should have been his birthright. He hooked his thumb under the ring of Rogers’ anus. The table creaked as Rogers strained at his bonds.

“Look at how loose you are. We often speak in metaphors when we are at war.” Schmidt grinned, his teeth stark white in his crimson face. “Shall we see if you can take the _literal_ fist of HYDRA?” Schmidt flexed his forearm and _shoved_. The thrashing of Rogers upon his fist was delightful, the rapid tattoo of Rogers’ booted heels upon the table was sheer bliss.

“Yes, I thought so. You depraved beast.” Schmidt flexed his fingers within the Captain’s innards and probed. He was rewarded by the sudden spasm of Rogers’ entire body, it clenched painfully around his forearm. Ribbons of white semen spurted, erupted from Rogers’ cock, the velocity and distance of his emission was stunning. The sound the Captain made in his throat, oh the guttural moan that peaked to a keening whine of mindless pleasure, that sound was all the proof Schmidt needed that he was the better man. It even drowned out the ominous creaking of the much abused table.

He pulled his hand out of Rogers with a sickening wet squelch. The ruined black leather glove was cast aside. Schmidt strode over to the head of the table. He pulled himself out of his breeches and with a few quick strokes of his hand, he painted Rogers’ face and throat with his own fluids. Momentarily winded, Schmidt braced himself with one hand on the table and stared at the cool, clear blue eyes of Captain Steven Rogers. A glob of semen dripped down his chiseled cheekbone, a parody of a tear. Schmidt stared at that defilement instead of noticing how intently Rogers’ eyes focused upon him. 

“There. The sample is obtained from the animal. Possibly contaminated, we may have to retake it. I think we understand each other now. No one will ever make you feel the way that I just did. If you ever see your sweet lover again, you’ll look in their eyes and see my face there. That is my gift to you, Captain. What a lucky beast you are to have been—“ The table leg snapped and Rogers’ shacked fist slammed into Schmidt’s skull, over and over again. Schmidt was strong, but surprise was always a crucial advantage and darkness claimed him.

 

The Howling Commandos stormed the HYDRA facility, they’d followed the tracker in Steve’s boot heel. A little gift from Stark. Steve would often recklessly rush off without them these days and tracking him down took too much of Stark’s valuable fucking around time.

Dugan split off to search the left hallway while the others took on the remaining corridors. Dugan was looking forward to hearing Peggy tongue lash Rogers for trying to take out the chemical plant without them as backup. Oh, he was in for a fucking good verbal shellacking. Dugan might even join in.

Dugan reloaded his gun, it had been a busy night for Old Betsy. He turned a corner in the stone rabbit warren of HYDRA’s dungeon and gasped, “Steve!”

Captain Rogers was more naked than not, the tattered remains of his uniform hung lankly against his skin. He pressed his filthy face against the cool stone. Blood streaked his chest and Dugan saw two bloody discarded HYDRA emblem badges on the floor. Dugan rushed to his aid and the smell… the smell left no mystery as to what the HYDRA bastards had done to him.

“Jesus Steve.” Dugan breathed as he helped him to his feet.

“It’s nothing.” Steve said through gritted teeth. “Just— Just help me find some pants, it’s chilly down here in the dungeons.”

Dugan nodded. He’d seen a corpse to rob that was about Rogers’ size. “What do you want me to tell Miss Union Jack?”

Steve wiped his face with the back of his hand. “The truth. I got a snootful of some weird HYDRA gas, got captured and beaten up a bit. Don’t remember much of it really. Nothing I can’t handle. Man, she’s going to turn the paint blue when she sees me.” They lumbered through the hallway and Dugan quickly stripped the corpse. He wasn’t going to need those pants.

Dugan averted his eyes, watched for hostiles as Steve removed his boots and dressed. “Good thing we had that tracker in your boot. We lost track of you. Thought that the Red Skull had got you for sure.”

“He— he was here.” Steve picked up his shield. “He was a little tougher to punch in the face than Hitler, but a whole lot more satisfying.” His smile wavered, “He got away.”

Dugan tried to be steady, the rock of support. “We’ll get you cleaned up before we head back, okay? Now let’s get you back to Peggy so she can kiss those boo-boos better.” Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. “Animals, man. They’re all _animals_.” He turned and took point as they exited the facility.

Steve was grateful for the cover of darkness. No one could see the red flush upon his cheeks that had bloomed at Dugan’s words. He looked down at his free hand, clenched it into a fist. The healing skin over his knuckles split open and stung.

It was true, he couldn’t remember a lot of what happened. It was hazy, blessedly so, but the moment that the Red Skull had— had— Steve looked away from his hand. He remembered every moment of _that_ from the vicious pain to the terrible ecstasy. Bitter bile churned and rose in his gorge. Steve spat on the ground.

He wasn’t sure there was enough soap and hot water in Europe to get him clean enough to kiss Peggy again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All endearments Steve mutters are to Peggy in his mind as the requester asked for no Stucky.


End file.
